Honour Among Thieves (17 page)

Saddam
began to laugh, so the others round the table followed suit.

‘And
the Archivist, is he still convinced it’s Clinton who will be visiting him?’
asked the State Prosecutor.

‘Yes,
he is,’ said Al Obaydi. ‘Just before I flew out Cavalli had taken eight of his
own men over the building posing as a Secret Service preliminary reconnaissance
team, carrying out a site survey. The Archivist could not have been more
co-operative, and Cavalli was given enough time to check out everything. That
exercise should make the switching of the Declaration on May 25th far easier
for him.’

‘But
if, and I only say if, they succeed in getting the original out, have they made
arrangements for passing the document over to you?’ asked the State Prosecutor.

‘Yes,’
replied Al Obaydi confidently. ‘I understand that the President wants the
document to be delivered to Barazan Al-Tikriti, our venerated Ambassador to the
United Nations in Geneva. When he has received the parchment, and not before, I
will authorise the final payment.’

The
President nodded his approval. After all, the venerated Ambassador in Geneva
was his half-brother. The State Prosecutor continued his questioning.

‘But
how can we be sure that what is handed to us will be the original, and not just
a first-class copy?’ he demanded. ‘What’s to prevent them from making a show of
walking in and out of the National Archives, but not actually switching the
documents?’

A
smile appeared on Al Obaydi’s lips for the first time. ‘I took the precaution,
State Prosecutor, of demanding such proof,’ he replied. ‘When the fake replaces
the original, it will continue to be displayed for the general public to view.
You can be assured that I shall be among the general public’

‘But
you have not answered my question,’ said the State Prosecutor sharply. ‘How
will you know ours is the original?’

‘Because
on the original document penned by Timothy Matlock, there is a simple spelling
mistake, which has been corrected on the copy executed by Bill O’Reilly’

The
State Prosecutor reluctantly sat back in his chair when his master raised a
hand.

‘Another
criminal, Excellency,’ explained the Foreign Minister. ‘This time a forger, who
has been responsible for making the copy of the document.’

‘So,’
said the State Prosecutor, leaning forward once again, ‘if the incorrect
spelling is still on the document displayed in the National Archives on May
25th, you will know we have a fake and will not pay out another cent. Is that
right?’

‘Yes,
State Prosecutor,’ said Al Obaydi.

‘Which
word on the original has been incorrectly spelt?’ demanded the State
Prosecutor.

When
the Deputy Ambassador told him, all Nakir Farrar said was, ‘How appropriate,’
and then closed the file in front of him.

‘However,
it will still be necessary for me to have the final payment to hand,’ continued
Al Obaydi, ‘should I be satisfied that they have carried out their part of the
bargain, and that we are in possession of the original parchment.’

The
Foreign Minister looked towards Saddam who, again, nodded.

‘It
will be in place by May 25th,’ said the Foreign Minister. ‘I would like the
opportunity to go over some of the details with you before your return to New
York.

As
long as that meets with the President’s approval?’

Saddam
waved a hand to indicate that such a request was not important to him. His eyes
remained fixed on Al Obaydi. The Deputy Ambassador wasn’t sure if he was meant
to leave or await further questioning. He favoured caution, and remained seated
and silent. It was some time before anyone spoke.

‘You
must be curious, Hamid, about why I place such importance on this scrap of
useless paper.’ As the Deputy Ambassador had never met the President before, he
was surprised to be called by his first name.

‘It
is not for me to question Your Excellency’s reasoning,’ replied Al Obaydi.

‘Nevertheless,’
continued Saddam, ‘you would be less than human not to wonder why I am willing
to spend one hundred million dollars and at the same time risk international
embarrassment should you fail.’

Al
Obaydi noted the word ‘you’ with some discomfort.

‘I
would be fascinated to know, Sayedi, if you felt able to confide in such an
unworthy soul.’

Twelve
members of the Council looked towards the President to gauge his reaction to
the Deputy Ambassador’s comment. Al Obaydi felt immediately that he had gone
too far. He sat, terrified, during what felt like the longest silence in his
life.

‘Then
I shall let you share my secret, Hamid,’ said Saddam, his black eyes boring
into the Deputy Ambassador. ‘When I captured the Nineteenth Province for my
beloved people, I found myself at war not with the traitors we had invaded, but
the combined strength of the Western world – and that despite an agreement
previously reached with the American Ambassador. “Why?” I had to ask, when
everyone knew that Kuwait was run by a few corrupt families who had little
interest in the welfare of their own people. I’ll tell you why. In one word,
oil. Had it been coffee beans that the Nineteenth Province was exporting, you
would never have seen as much as an American rowing boat armed with a catapult
enter the Gulf.’

The
Foreign Minister smiled and nodded.

‘And
who were the leaders who ganged up against me? Thatcher, Gorbachev and Bush.
That was less than three years ago. And what has happened to them since?
Thatcher was removed by a coup carried out by her own supporters; Gorbachev was
deposed by a man he himself had sacked only a year before and whose own
position now looks unstable; Bush suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of
the American people. While I remain the Supreme Leader and President of my
country.’

There
followed a burst of applause which died instantly when Saddam began speaking
again.

‘That,
of course, would be ample reward for most people. But not me, Hamid. Because Bush’s
place has been taken by this man Clinton, who has learned nothing from his
predecessor’s mistakes, and who now also wishes to challenge my supremacy. But
this time it is my intention to humiliate him along with the American infidels
long before they are given the opportunity to do so. And I shall go about this
in such a way that will make it impossible for Clinton to recover any
credibility in his lifetime. I intend to make Clinton and the American people
the laughing stock of the world.’

The
heads continued nodding.

‘You
have already witnessed my ability to turn the greed of their own people into a
willingness to steal the most cherished document in their nation’s history. And
you, Hamid, are the chosen vessel to ensure that my genius will be acknowledged.’
Al Obaydi lowered his head.

‘Once
I am in possession of the Declaration I shall wait patiently until the fourth
of July, when the whole of America will be spending a peaceful Sunday
celebrating Independence Day.’ No one in the room uttered a word while the
President paused.

‘I
shall also celebrate Independence Day, not in Washington or New York, but in
Tahrir Square, surrounded by my beloved people. When I, Saddam Hussein,
President of Iraq, will in front of the entire world’s media burn to a cinder the
American Declaration of Independence.’

Hannah
lay awake in her barrack-room bed, feeling not unlike the child she had been
some thirteen years before when she had spent her first night at boarding
school.

She
had collected Karima Saib’s cases from the carousel at Charles de Gaulle
airport, dreading what she might find inside them.

A
driver had picked her up as promised, but as he had been unwilling to make any
attempt at conversation she had no idea what to expect when they pulled up outside
the Jordanian Embassy. Hannah was surprised by its size.

The
beautiful old house which was set back from the boulevard Maurice Barres was
formerly the home of the late Aga Khan. The Iraqi annexe had been allocated two
complete floors, tangible proof that the Jordanians did not wish to get on the
wrong side of Saddam.

On
entering the annexe to the embassy, the first person she met was Abdul Kanuk,
the Chief Administrator. He certainly didn’t look like a diplomat, and when he
opened his mouth she realised he wasn’t. Kanuk informed her that the Ambassador
and his senior secretary Muna Ahmed were tied up in meetings and that she was
to unpack and then wait in her room until called for.

The
cramped accommodation was just about large enough for a bed and two suitcases,
and might, she thought, have been a store room before the Iraqi delegation
moved in. When she eventually forced open Karima Saib’s suitcase she quickly
discovered that the only things that fitted from her wardrobe were her shoes.
Hannah didn’t know whether to be relieved, because of Saib’s taste, or anxious
about how little of her own she had to wear.

Muna
Ahmed, the senior secretary, joined her in the kitchen for supper later that
evening. It seemed that secretaries in the embassy were treated on the same
level as servants. Hannah managed to convince Muna that it was better than she
had expected, especially since they were only able to use the annexe to the
Jordanian Embassy. Muna explained that as far as the Corps Diplomatique of
France was concerned, the Iraqi Ambassador was to be treated only as a Head of
Interest Section, although they were to address him at all times as ‘Your
Excellency’ or ‘Ambassador’.

During
the first few days in her new job, Hannah sat in the room next to the Ambassador’s
on the other side of Muna’s desk. She spent most of her time twiddling her
fingers. Hannah quickly discovered that no one took much interest in her as
long as she completed any work the Ambassador had left for her on his dictating
machine. In fact that soon became Hannah’s biggest problem, as she had to slow
down in order to make Muna look more efficient. The only thing Hannah ever
forgot was to keep wearing her see-through glasses.

In
the evenings, over supper in the kitchen, Hannah learned from Muna everything
that was expected of an Iraqi woman abroad, including how to avoid the advances
of Abdul Kanuk, the Chief Administrator. By the second week, her learning curve
had already slowed down, and increasingly Hannah found the Ambassador was
relying on her skills. She tried not to show too much initiative.

Once
they had finished their work, Hannah and Muna were expected to remain indoors,
and were not allowed to leave the building at night unless accompanied by the
Chief Administrator, a prospect that didn’t tempt either of them. As Muna had
no interest in music, the theatre or even going to cafes, she was happy to pass
the time in her room reading the speeches of Saddam Hussein.

As
the days slowly passed Hannah began to hope that the Mossad agent in Paris
would contact her so that she could be pulled out and sent back to Israel to
prepare for her mission – not that she had any clue who the Mossad agent was.
She wondered if they had one in the embassy. Alone in her room, she often
speculated. The driver? Too slow. The gardener? Too dumb. The cook? Certainly
possible – the food was bad enough to believe it was her second job. Abdul
Kanuk, the Chief Administrator? Hardly, since, as he pointed out at least three
times a day, he was a cousin of Barazan Al-Tikriti, Saddam Hussein’s
half-brother and the UN Ambassador in Geneva. Kanuk was also the biggest gossip
in the embassy, and supplied Hannah with more information about Saddam Hussein
and his entourage in one night than the Ambassador managed in a week. In truth,
the Ambassador rarely spoke of Sayedi in her presence, and when he did he was
always guarded and respectful.

It
was during the second week that Hannah was introduced to the Ambassador’s wife.
Hannah quickly discovered that she was fiercely independent, partly because she
was half Turkish, and didn’t consider that it was necessarily her duty always
to stay inside the embassy compound. She did things that were thought extreme
by Iraqi standards, like accompanying her husband to cock ... tail parries, and
she had even been known to pour herself a drink without waiting to be asked.
She also went -which was more important for Hannah – twice a week to swim at
the nearby public baths in the boulevard Lannes. The Ambassador agreed, after a
little persuasion, that it would be acceptable for the new secretary to
accompany his wife.

Scott
arrived in Paris on a Sunday. He had been given a key to a small flat on the
avenue de Messine, and they had opened an account for him at the Societe
Generale on boulevard Haussmann in the name of Simon Rosenthal.

He
was to telephone or fax Langley only after he had located the Mossad agent. No
other operative had been informed of his existence, and he had been told not to
make contact with any field agent he had worked with in the past who was now
stationed in Europe.

Scott
spent the first two days discovering the nine places from which he could
observe the front door of the Jordanian Embassy without being seen by anyone in
the building.

By
the end of a week he had begun to realise for the first time what agents really
meant by the expression ‘hours of solitude’. He even started to miss some of
his students.